


we're just impostors in this country

by likewinning



Series: little beasts [64]
Category: DCU (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8201639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likewinning/pseuds/likewinning
Summary: Sometimes, Kyle's terrified for him.





	

Kyle never goes to Connor's fights. He tried one time, when he was too high to say no, but mostly it makes him too nervous. Connor's _good_ at what he does - he knows all kinds of crazy fight moves, can kill a guy with the flick of his wrist (and Kyle's seen that up close, maybe), but sometimes they ask Connor to take a bow, and if the money's good enough -

Tonight, Connor comes home with a stash of money and a face bruised to hell. He leans against the door just watching Kyle. The only light is from candles Kyle has arranged around the place because lately the light hurts his eyes.

"Fuck," Kyle says when he sees him. He sets down his paintbrush, stumbles across the mess of canvas board laid out across the floor until he reaches Connor and looks up at him. "What happened?"

Connor smirks at him through a cut lip. Kyle touches the cut with his thumb and Connor hisses at the sting. "Guess it was my turn to lose tonight."

"Hm," Kyle says. He leans forward and buries his face in the crook of Connor's neck, breathes in the sweat and blood from the fight. Connor scratches his hand through Kyle's hair, asks, "What've you been working on?"

"Matisse," Kyle says. He groans. "Got a buyer who wants a whole set from the Paris years."

"You know I don't know what that means, right?" Connor asks, and Kyle laughs and bites his collar bone.

"It means _money_ , you dope," Kyle says.

"Speaking of dope," Connor says. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a baggie. "You wanna?"

"Like you have to ask," Kyle says. He steps back, takes Connor by the wrist and they move over to the couch.

Connor doesn't use like Kyle does, but once in a while, after a fight like this, he'll shoot just to kill the ache in his bones. Connor lays back against the arm of the couch while Kyle gets everything ready. "Will you do it for me?" Connor asks.

"'Course," Kyle says. He cooks up the heroin over one of the candles on the coffee table, shoots it up the needle and Connor holds up his arm. The first time they did this Kyle was so nervous, but now all he can think about is painting Connor just like this, spread out for him and so relaxed, so trusting. He's seen Connor destroy a man with just his fists, but right now -

"You ready, baby?" Kyle asks, and Connor nods, breathes in deep as Kyle shoots him up.

"God," Connor says. His eyes roll back and his mouth hangs open and for a minute Kyle forgets about himself, forgets to do anything but watch _him_.

"Tell me about the fight," Kyle says as he cooks up a hit for himself.

Connor snorts, slides his legs into Kyle's lap. "Hate taking a fall," Connor says. "'Specially against this guy. Scrappy little thing. Good fighter, but - hah. Wouldn't have a chance against me on a day I could win."

"Mm," Kyle says. He taps his vein and slides the needle in, watches it fill up with blood and dope and fucking magic. It's good shit, not the stuff they get from Harper sometimes when there's nothing else to be found. He drops the syringe back on the table and leans back against the couch.

"Yeah well," Kyle says. "If I could paint what I want and you could fight how you want, we wouldn't be a bunch of imposters, would we?"

Connor laughs, low and warm. Kyle squeezes his feet, slides his hands under Connor's jeans and feels the skin there, the pure muscle. The first time they met it was after a fight like this, when Kyle found him stumbling around bloody and bruised and ready to tear the world apart. Kyle took him home then, dragged him up to his apartment and let Connor take him apart, not worried for a second about being put back together.

"You could paint anything," Connor says. He unbuttons his jeans and Kyle helps him pull them off, lets them crumple to the floor amongst the paint splatter.

"Maybe," Kyle says. He drops down between Connor's legs, sucks a bruise into his thigh. "But maybe I just wanna paint _you_."

"Yeah?" Connor teases. He pushes Kyle's hair out of his eyes and Kyle looks up at him, at the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the way the light from the candles reflects in them. "What color?"

"Jerk," Kyle says. He rubs his face against Connor's boxers, and Kyle sighs. "Wanna paint you just like this. All messed up for me."

"Wouldn't make you much money," Connor says.

"You kidding?" Kyle asks. He pushes Connor's shirt up and Connor lifts his arms to help him get it off. Kyle licks the lines of his abs, the scar on his chest from some fucker in Central City who went after Connor with a knife when he lost out on prize money. They laughed about it later, the way his bones snapped under Connor's hands, but at the time -

Sometimes, Kyle's terrified for him.

"I'll be a millionaire, baby," Kyle says. He bites Connor's nipple, and Connor grabs him by the back of the neck and holds him there. "And you'll be famous."

"There's a thought," Connor says. He yanks Kyle up by the hair and sucks on his tongue until Kyle's grinding down against him, trying to feel him through the thin layer of his boxers. He's hard enough from the drugs, but having Connor this close to him always makes him fucking crazy.

"Need you," Kyle mumbles against him, and Connor nods, slips Kyle's boxers down and squeezes his ass. He reaches for the lube they keep on the coffee table, slicks up his fingers and slides two into Kyle right away. Kyle whines, bites down on Connor's shoulder and squirms against him.

"That what you need?" Connor asks, and Kyle groans, throws his head back and writhes against him.

"Yeah," Kyle says. "God, baby, you feel -" he chokes out, and Connor chuckles.

"I think that might be the drugs, you know."

"No," Kyle says. He pinches Connor's side, and Connor twists his fingers. "It's not - god, _fuck_ ," he says, knocks against Connor's nose trying to get to his mouth, to lick his way inside until he can't taste anything else.

Connor slips his fingers back out, pushes his boxers down enough to get his dick out. Then he looks up at Kyle, lifts him by the hips and holds him there as Kyle guides his dick inside of him.

"God," Kyle gasps. "God, _Connor_."

"You okay?" Connor asks, and Kyle grins, knows he must look doped up and crazy and he doesn't _care_.

"'Course I am," Kyle says, and he uses Connor's shoulders to push himself up, feels Connor's hands at his sides helping him along.

"Just wanna do this," Kyle says. "No more painting. No more fighting."

"Mm," Connor says. He licks the cut on his lip, and Kyle leans down to suck on it, tastes blood and bites down for more. "Hard to keep us high that way, won't it?"

"Don't care," Kyle says. He tilts up, arches his back until all he can feel is Connor. The ceiling above them is filled with stars from one time years ago when Kyle was bored and high and sick of being trapped in a city of lights. He stayed up painting the whole ceiling back, then added in his favorite constellations. None of them really make any kind of sense, but that's how Kyle likes it.

"Kyle," Connor says. "Look at me," and Kyle does, looks at the bruise on Connor's cheek, the cut above his eyebrow that's never fully healed, the heat and promise in his eyes as Connor lifts him again and then thrusts _up_ , so hard Kyle forgets how to breathe. Kyle thinks he screams, or maybe Connor does, or maybe -

Connor moves them again, pushes Kyle onto his back and Kyle wraps his legs around him tight as Connor keeps fucking into him, keeps saying his name. He traces the scars on Connor's chest, the cigarette burn near his abs, the track marks on his arms and then holds on tight tight _tight_ as he feels Connor come inside him.

"God," Connor breathes. He lets Kyle drop back down to the couch and falls somewhere between his legs, and Kyle spaces out petting Connor's hair, thinking Connor's passed out when he feels him start to lap at his balls.

"Oh," Kyle asks. "Yeah?" And Connor looks up at him, all stupid and adoring like that first morning he woke up here. Kyle didn't even have ice in the freezer to put on his banged up face, but he still never really left.

"Yeah," Connor says, and swallows him.

Connor's always so quiet about this. Kyle's messy; never heard of a blowjob that didn't involve a lot of slurping and spitting, but Connor's always so _shy_ , eyelids lowered even as he takes him all the way to the base. The light from the candles flicker on his face and Kyle wants to grab for his sketchbook right _now_ , wants to hold onto this even as his body begs Connor to let him fuck his face.

"God," Kyle says. "God, baby, that's good. Need you - need to -"

Connor hums around him, reaches under him and squeezes his ass, sticky and leaking from Connor's come, and Kyle bangs his head back against the couch and comes screaming.

Connor sits back on his legs, wipes at his mouth with his thumb. Kyle watches him, then wraps his legs back around Connor and nudges him down to rest on his chest. Connor settles against him with his head under his chin and they watch the candles start to burn out around them.

"Matisse," Connor murmurs after a while. "He the one with all the mistresses?"

"Maybe," Kyle says. "Artists are pretty sexy, you know."

"Mm," Connor says. "Of course."

Connor's broken his nose twice just since Kyle's known him, and he snores like nothing else, but Kyle barely even notices it anymore. If anything, it lulls him to sleep.


End file.
